


The Kitten's Tale

by rabidchild67



Series: Cursed [1]
Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Animal Transformation, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kittens, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1300552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kitten!Nick – need I say more?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kitten's Tale

Nick slowly felt himself regaining consciousness – it was like it started somewhere in his limbs and worked itself inward.

 _Jesus, what the hell happened?_ he thought, trying to lift his head and failing. Deciding panicking would do him no good, he lay still and took deep, deep breaths. Eventually, he felt a little stronger and tried to lift his head again, followed by the rest of him. The room tilted and he tripped, but easily recovered. 

_I really would just like to know what happened and where I am,_ he thought, looking around the vast room and recognizing none of it. He felt a bit dizzy and so sat down for a minute to collect himself. 

He caught a glimpse of himself in what appeared to be a highly-polished brass mirror. And blinked. He shook his head and blinked again, tracking his movements in the reflection, so that he knew he was looking at himself.

 _Aw, FUCK!_ he said, but all that came out was, “Mew.”

\----

ONE DAY EARLIER

“Quit it!” Monroe muttered, squinching his shoulder up as Nick buried his face into the back of his neck. Nick’s morning beard was scratchy and tickled the _blutbad_ every time he slept over. Monroe shuddered, turned over so that he was facing Nick. 

“You know you love it,” Nick said fondly, kissing the tip of his nose and resting his forehead against the _blutbad_ 's. 

“Uh-huh,” Monroe replied non-committally, and Nick reached up to caress his cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Bagels?”

“Nah – I’m making you pancakes!”

“Fancy!”

Monroe showered and arrived at the breakfast table to find a delicious-smelling pile of pancakes with warmed syrup waiting for him, and Nick dressed in his leather jacket, car keys dangling from his fingers. “You’re leaving?”

Nick looked as disappointed as Monroe felt. “Got called in on a case. Couple of kids disappeared at a middle school. Captain just called.”

“Will you be home for dinner? I was gonna make veggie paella.”

Nick crossed the room and got up on his toes to kiss Monroe deeply. “Extra chiles?” he asked with a smile, and Monroe shrugged in the affirmative. “I’ll bring the wine.”

Monroe watched him sideways as he left, enjoying the sight of him in his tight jeans, and sighed. It was going to be a good day.

\----

Nick sat in the background as Hank interviewed student after student, friends of the four missing kids. Two had gone missing over the course of the last three months and the latest two, a brother and sister, had not arrived at home the night before. There were little similarities among the different kids – some were apparently happy and well-adjusted, others had broken homes. Some were popular, others not. They went missing from different locations and no one saw anything. The only thing they had in common was that they either belonged to the school’s concert band or had a class taught in that room.

When they went to talk to the teacher, Miss Jarich, she greeted them with homemade gingerbread cookies and a pot of tea. “Please, have a seat, detectives,” she said.

Miss Jarich was young, tall and shapely, with wide-set brown eyes in a heart-shaped face. She wore her dark hair in a pixie, today adorned by sparkly, rhinestone-decorated barrettes. She sat at her desk, crossed her legs and poured out two cups of tea – Nick had declined the hospitality – but it was clear that Hank was completely smitten.

“It seems the missing kids only have you in common,” Nick said without preamble, and Hank gave him a dirty look. Nick’s eyes, however were on Miss Jarich; call it Grimm’s intuition, but he wasn’t falling for the hot-for-teacher vibe she was selling.

“Mine is a popular class,” she said. “And our band has won national competitions. Parents around the city clamor to send their children here.”

“Why do you suppose so many of the students are in your class?” Nick asked.

She paused before answering and as he expected, something flickered across her face as she let her guard drop. When he glimpsed her true visage, he saw before him a wizened crone, with leather-like skin, a monstrous, hooked nose with wide, flaring nostrils, and hair that looked like it was made of straw or weeds. Her eyes glowed red, like hot coals. Nick blinked and her everyday face was visible to him again.

“An unhappy coincidence,” she said, eyes tearing up prettily. Hank handed her a tissue and Nick narrowed his eyes. The rest of the interview went predictably enough, with Hank asking the questions while Nick watched the creature before them for other clues to its motives.

Hours later, they’d finished interviewing every teacher and student who’d seen the last two children before they’d disappeared, and a typically tragic story emerged. The two –Johnny and Maggie – had last been seen walking home together. According to at least two accounts, they often took a shortcut through a nearby wooded lot, the investigation of which had turned up nothing. 

Nick didn’t like the sound of any of it – any time there was a missing kid, it occupied a special part of his soul, made him nearly irrational with the urgency to solve the case. Which was probably the reason he started following the pretty Miss Jarich when he spotted her leaving the school without finding Hank first or calling for backup. His Grimm senses were tingling like never before, and he just knew she was wrong.

She was on foot, so she must not live far, and Nick followed at a respectful distance. Her route took her through the same wooded lot the two missing kids had been seen entering, a fact that frankly didn’t surprise him. They emerged on the other side, and she kept walking, past a new housing development and finally down a long, private lane at the end of which stood a tiny but pretty cottage. Nick hid behind the trunk of an aged oak and watched her enter the house. Several minutes later, she emerged and got into the driver seat of a beat up old MG and drove away. 

Normally, this would have disappointed Nick, losing his suspect. But the fact this was clearly creature-related meant he’d have a chance to snoop around to see what was really going on. That he did so without a warrant was becoming more and more acceptable to him lately, but something he’d let bother him later, when the fates of two kids weren’t on the line. 

He waited a few minutes to be sure Jarich was really gone, then approached the house at an angle in case there was anyone inside he didn’t want to see him coming. He looked in through a side window and saw nothing unusual, but the sound of music and laughter coming from some part of the house got his attention and he moved towards it. As he did, it became clear it was coming from the basement. There was a tiny window there, through which he could see flickering lights. He peered through and there he saw the two kids, sitting on a couch in front of a television, watching cartoons and placidly eating what looked like ice cream sundaes. On closer inspection, however, Nick also saw that their feet were bound by chains, and each had a collar around the neck from which a rope dangled, binding them to the couch. 

Appalled, Nick stood and went towards the back of the house, looking for a door. He found it locked, but made quick work of the lock with the lockpicks Monroe had gotten him on eBay the month before, “because you never know when they’ll come in handy.” At the time, Nick had protested, but that was two creature investigations ago. However, he was still getting the hang of them, and it took him several minutes to get the door to open. 

He crept around the first floor of the house, looking for the access door to the basement. The kitchen was unremarkable – small, tidy, and with no sign of a door. Nick moved through to the front room, which housed a broad array of instruments sitting around – drums, violins, a cello. Apparently, Miss Jarich gave private lessons. Again, he found no door. He was about to start lifting up the rugs, looking for a trapdoor when the sound of a car in the driveway alerted him to the fact his suspect had returned. 

“Shit!” he said, looking around frantically for someplace to hide. He found a broom closet in the kitchen and got inside.

A minute later, Miss Jarich entered through the front, walked through to the kitchen and began unloading groceries. More sweets for the kids, Nick could see – cookies, candy, ice cream. Suddenly, something brushed against his ankle, and he tried to ignore what it might be, but then it happened again, this time with more force. He looked down and then behind him and realized one of the brooms was hitting him. He flinched, his elbow knocking against the door, and it nudged open. The broom reared back and swatted him, hard, across the backs of his knees and he was forced to jump out into the open.

“You!” Jarich said, attracted by the commotion. Her face contorted with anger as she advanced on him.

“Portland PD,” he answered, knowing how lame he sounded. The broom kept swatting him around the head and shoulders, and he kept having to duck away. “You’re under arrest for kidnapping and – OW! – reckless endangerment and – HEY! - whatever else I can come up with.”

She laughed, made a gesture with her hand and the broom retreated to its former spot in the closet. “As if,” she said, and again her features shifted into the visage of the old crone Nick had glimpsed earlier. “Do you know who I am? _What_ I am?” She fumbled with a cloth pouch that hung from her belt, stuck her fingers inside it.

“I don’t really care,” Nick said. “You do evil in my town, you pay.” 

He reached for his sidearm, but she was too quick for him. She flicked her hand out at him and a strange dust settled over him. At the same time, she began to mumble words in a strange language he did not recognize. He felt dizzy suddenly, and knew he had to get out of there. He stumbled towards the front room, his vision tunneling, everything reeling. _What had she hit him with?_

She followed after him, completing the incantation as she did. He stumbled, knocked against the drum set, which fell to the floor with a huge crash. He flinched, covered his ears and fell to his knees. He glanced back at her; she stood over him triumphantly as he fell to the floor. She seemed to be getting farther and farther away and then he knew no more.

\----

Monroe sat in his armchair staring at his front door intently, willing it to open and Nick to walk through. He’d waited all evening for him to arrive or to call to say he wouldn’t make it. All the prep for the paella had been completed hours before, then carefully put away again. Over the course of the night, he’d gone from concerned to annoyed to angry and, now, had swung back to nearly frantic that he hadn’t heard from his boyfriend. At all.

He blinked slowly. His eyeballs felt like sandpaper. Still the door did not open. 

He sipped at his now cold coffee, glanced, annoyed, at the perky weather girl perkily forecasting yet more cloudy, rainy days, and still the door did not open.

Finally he stood, grabbed his keys and left.

\----

Nick blinked. He stared at himself. He blinked again. He fought a sudden, irresistible urge to lick his paw.

What the hell had happened?

Well, it was quite obvious what had happened. He’d been turned into a cat. Correction: a kitten. He suddenly realized how small he was. He looked around the room frantically, spotted a potted lemon tree in the corner and ran to hide behind it. 

_Think, Nick, think,_ he thought. _What the hell happens now_?

Should he leave? He imagined it would be safer for him if he did, away from Miss Jarich and her strange magical powder. But he was a damn _kitten_ \- it wasn’t exactly safe out there in the wide world. There were things that would hurt him, things that would like to make a snack out of him. But he couldn’t stay here either. Surely, the witch – that’s what she had to be, right? – would be back to finish the job she’d started. But the kids – Johnny and Maggie - were, he hoped, still in the house. He had to help them, get them out. He had to stay. 

He’d never felt so indecisive before in his life. 

His decision was soon made for him however, as the magical broom that had nearly brained him the previous evening seemed to be going about its chores, kicking up dust everywhere. Nick streaked out of the room, found an open window and tore through the dew-soaked backyard to freedom.

Nick ran for a long time, but he eventually tired and slowed. Being literally a fraction of his former size, it was hard to determine how far he’d gone, so he walked in a straight line until he found a landmark he recognized. He soon spotted the wooded lot from the previous day, and was finally able to get his bearings. He knew that if he headed northeast, he’d arrive at the school, but if he headed west, he’d eventually get to Monroe’s neighborhood. It was farther away, but he hoped he’d be a lot safer with a _blutbad_ than a schoolyard full of kids.

He knew Monroe’s house was pretty much a straight shot from where he was, so he began to trot in that direction, trying hard not to think about the number of dogs, full-grown cats, birds of prey and other things that might like to take a bite out of his furry ass.

Monroe’s beat up old Beetle wasn’t in the driveway when he arrived, a fact so disappointing he’d have wept if he had a voice. He headed wearily for the porch and when he got there, looked up the five short steps to the front door. How many times had he taken them two or three at a time? Given his size and current state of exhaustion, they now seemed insurmountable. He sat down, regarding them with watery eyes that were soon drooping shut. He didn’t remember falling over as he fell asleep, and he wouldn’t have cared anyway. 

\----

Monroe pulled his car into his driveway and resisted the urge to beat the hell out of its steering wheel. He’d gone out in search of Nick and gotten nowhere. It was not surprising there was no sign of him at home. When he’d visited the police station, they only answered his questions with more questions – when was the last time he’d seen Detective Burkhardt, what was the nature of their relationship, did he know of anyone who might want to harm Nick? His answers – early that morning, none of your goddamned business, and hoo, boy – he kept to himself, and when the desk sergeant asked him to stick around to speak with Nick’s Captain, he’d gotten the hell out of Dodge.

It was clear to him Nick was now officially missing, or why wouldn’t the cops have just gotten him, or said he was on an assignment? But Monroe had little clue where to start looking, when he’d gone missing, or what course of investigation had precipitated the disappearance.

Sighing heavily, completely at a loss for what to do next, he got out of the car and headed to his front door – and nearly stepped on the tiny ball of fur he found curled up asleep at the base of his front steps.

“What the –“ he said, looking down at the kitten. It was small, young – maybe ten weeks old; it had long black fur and white paws. He nudged it with his foot… it wasn’t that he didn’t like cats, it was that they didn’t tend to like him. He looked down on it like it had left a mess on his carpet and nudged it with the toe of his boot.

The kitten stirred, swiveled its tiny head up and blinked at him drowsily. “Scram,” Monroe ordered, brows furrowing. The kitten sat up and yawned, still looking at him steadily. He noticed there was a blaze of white on its chest, and it was vaguely shaped like a heart. He refused to think it was cute. He stepped over it and headed for his door.

As he fumbled to find the right key, he heard a light scratching-scrabbling sound behind him and he turned. The kitten was hauling itself up the steps. “Are you nuts? I’m the Big Bad. Hit the road.” He turned back to the door. _Are you nuts_ he thought to himself. _You’re the one talking to a cat._

Monroe jumped when something touched the leg of his pants. The kitten was pawing gently at him, as if trying to get his attention, then its tiny claws snagged on the fabric and it pulled back, a puzzled expression on its face. Monroe looked up and down his block to be sure no one could see, and then allowed his face to transform somewhat into his _blutbad_ self, leaned over and growled, “Get outta here!”

The kitten’s gaze did not waver. In fact, it stretched its head so far back as it kept looking at him that it sat itself down. “Mew!” it replied calmly.

Monroe shook his head. “Guess you’re not as intimidating as you thought, Monroe,” he said to himself and entered his house.

He went through to the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee, poured a mug and walked back to the front room to brood broodingly on the couch. 

“Mew! Mew!” came a tiny voice and he looked over at the front window. The kitten had somehow managed to climb or jump up on to the sill outside, and was meowing at him through the glass. 

“You are one tenacious mother, aren’t you?” he called through the window. The kitten stretched itself up on its back legs, reached its front paws as high as it could and scratched against the pane of glass. This was a sound that had the immediate effect of traveling up Monroe’s spinal column, directly into his brain and thrashing around. He got to his feet immediately and opened the window. “What is wrong with you?” he barked at the kitten, who jumped inside and landed squarely on top of Monroe’s desk. It headed straight for him and bumped its head against his hip insistently, forcing Monroe to pet the damn thing.

“Prrrrhh!” it said, marching back and forth under his hand and arching its back against him. 

Monroe watched its performance until he was finally forced to give in. “OK, fine. You’re cute.” It regarded him with large, grey eyes and licked its little lips. “Hungry? Let me see what we’ve got for kittens.”

\----

Nick watched, disappointed, as Monroe headed for the kitchen. He had hoped – rather irrationally, he’d have to admit – that Monroe would somehow know it was him stuck inside the body of a cat. That some sixth _blutbad_ sense would kick in and he’d know it was him and then help Nick out of this mess. He also missed his warmth – apparently tiny kitten bodies weren’t good for the regulation of body temperatures.

He watched as Monroe returned from the kitchen with a small dish and sat it down in front of his paws. It was a saucer of milk. How cliché. Monroe knew he hated milk.

But his tiny belly was aching from hunger and he sniffed at it dubiously. It smelled good…kind of sweet, and had Monroe _warmed it up_? He lapped at it experimentally and found he liked the taste. He licked and licked, trying to get as much of it as he could, until the saucer was empty and his enthusiastic licking threatened to push it off the desk.

“Wow, you’re really hungry, huh?” Monroe said. Nick noted that his voice had gone up a few octaves. He reminded himself to mock the _blutbad_ later. Monroe took up the saucer and patted Nick’s side with what was, to Nick, a massive hand. There was something so very comforting in the touch – more so than when they were together in bed, more than when they just sat around making out like horny teenagers – the joy he derived from the contact was almost a physical thing within his chest, something that almost pulled at him. He closed his eyes and leaned into that touch, and realized what the feeling was - he was purring. 

“You are a cute little thing,” Monroe murmured, and returned to the kitchen with the saucer.

 _Come back,_ Nick called to him, but of course all that came out was, “Meow.” His lack of vocabulary was going to be an issue. He wondered if he could force his kitty mouth to form anything resembling human speech. _Monroe,_ he tried and: “Mrowr.” _Monroe, Monroe, Monroe!_ “Mrowr. Mrowrrrrr. Mew.” _Mon roe,_ he tried, more slowly this time. “Mrrr rowrrr.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were saying my name,” Monroe said as he entered the room, and Nick walked a little figure 8 of excitement. 

“Mrrr rowrrr, Mrrr rowrrr, Mrrr rowrrr.”

Monroe laughed and grabbed him up, his hand under his belly and chest, and placed him on the floor. He then sat down at the desk, opened up his laptop and fired up a web browser. “As cute as you are, I’ve got work to do,” he said, leaning down to say it, “finding my lost Grimm.”

 _I’m right here,_ Nick would have said if he thought it’d do him any good. He lay down on his paws at Monroe’s feet, head tilted back with his chin resting against the chair leg, and watched as Monroe seemed to be doing a bit of research into any news reports that might be creature related. This gave him an idea and he dashed suddenly out of the room. 

He remembered that the front page headline of the previous day’s paper had been about the disappearances of the children, and he hoped Monroe still had his lying around somewhere. Maybe he could call some attention to it. He headed to the recycle bin in the enclosed porch at the back of the house and hopped up onto the stack of papers inside. And there it was, right on top – the previous day’s paper. 

“Mrrr rowrrr! Mrrr rowrrr!” he said, pawing frantically at the paper’s headline. His sharp claws began to shred the newsprint in places, but he was too excited to care.

“What is it, little guy? Gotta go out? I suppose that makes sense.” Monroe headed over and lifted Nick gently off the stack of papers, opened the back door and deposited him on the top step. “Guess I’ll have to get you a litter box later, huh?” 

Nick raised a paw to get his attention, but he’d already closed the door.

\----

Monroe paced the floor of the house, indecisive as to what to do. Sure, he could go and try to talk to Nick’s partner, Hank, but the man knew nothing of their relationship, and outing Nick wasn’t exactly the best way of helping him.What had Nick said about the case he’d been called in on? Couple of missing kids. Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? Hadn’t he seen something about it? He snapped his fingers – of course, it had been in the paper. He went to the porch and pulled the paper off the top of the pile, noting the destruction the kitten had wreaked on it, though the article was still readable. It was a good thing the kitten hadn’t peed on the thing. 

He scanned the article, picked out the pertinent facts and decided he ought to go and check out the school for himself. He grabbed his jacket and keys and opened the front door.

“Meow!” the kitten said to him, and if he didn’t know better, Monroe would have thought the thing was annoyed. It sat in the middle of the welcome mat, glaring adorably. 

“Oh hey, sorry. I forgot about you.” Monroe stepped aside, swung the door wide. “Come in, I’m about to go out.” The kitten just looked up at him. “Well, it’s a little chilly, but if you want to stay outside, who am I to argue?” Monroe said and pulled the door shut behind himself.

He took a step forward and the kitten danced backwards. He tried to dodge the thing, and still it remained underfoot. “Come on, kid, I’m gonna squash ya,” he muttered, and finally stooped down to pick the cat up. He held it up to his face and looked it in the eyes. “You’re not endearing yourself to me,” he informed the kitten.

“Mrrowrrrr,” it protested, and swiped a paw at his nose. Monroe moved his hand away in time not to be scratched, but was still impressed by the kitten’s attitude. He brought it quickly up to his face and kissed it on top of the head. 

When he did, he managed to get a nose full of the kitten’s scent. He was about to put it back down on the porch, when something familiar about it caught his attention. Bringing the cat back to his face, he smelled it again and realized that – it smelled like a cat. But there was no denying there was a note of something familiar there, something he almost recognized. Chalking it up to the fact the kitten had spent the last hour or more in his house, he shrugged and opened the door, dropped the kitten onto the floor and held up a warning finger. “Be good and I’ll bring you some tuna,” he said and locked up.

\----

 _Be good, he says,_ Nick thought. _I’ve been turned into a freakin’ cat, I’m anything but good._ He turned around and surveyed the _blutbad_ ’s living space. Everything looked different to him, from this perspective. The tiny house seemed huge to him, the floors dark and vast, the ceilings cavernous. And the drapes…suddenly so very appealing. He let himself be drawn to them. How had he never noticed the rich fabric and weave of the brocade? So attractive, so…irresistible. His mouth was watering.

He reached out a paw, touched them, felt his tiny, sharp claws snag, pulled his paw back. The tugging on his claws sent a frisson up his limb and along his spine and he shivered. He touched the drape again, flexed the paw so that he was grabbing some of the fabric. The drag of the threads along the claws was delicious, almost sensual. He pulled the paw back again and reoriented his body, got up on his hind legs and reached out with both front paws as far as he could reach, allowing himself to hang from his claws, stretching his back, his forelimbs, his tail. He closed his eyes and sighed, reveling, and then he…well, he couldn’t help himself. He ran his paws up and down the bottom of the drapery, his claws pulling, snagging, rending; it was a compulsion he really couldn’t control and didn’t really want to. When he was done, he sat down and surveyed the damage; he knew Monroe’d be pissed, but it didn’t matter. He lifted a paw and sniffed at it, thought it needed improving and began to lick languidly.

A sudden realization came to him and he stopped his grooming…he needed a bathroom. But…he was a kitten. It wasn’t as if he could hop onto the toilet, could he? It was probably too high. He looked around the room. The carpet was absolutely out of the question – if he thought Monroe’d be mad about the drapes, he’d kill him if he messed on the rug. Kitchen floor? It was linoleum…water proof-ish, right? He headed off in that direction.

He walked the perimeter of the room, wondering where best to do this…in the middle of the floor where it’d be obvious and Monroe could clean it up right away? Under the table, where there was some privacy? As he did so, he caught a glimpse of the potted fichus tree in Monroe’s dining room. He headed over to it, put his front paws on the lip of the pot and peered inside, sniffing. There was something inviting about the dark potting soil, something that felt right to him. 

He drew back and then hopped in, pawing lightly at the soil and enjoying the feeling of it between his toes. This was it, this was where he needed to do this, he was certain. He squatted and did his business, and was about to hop back out when he got the feeling he was doing something wrong. He turned, sniffed at what he’d left. Yes, he’d forgotten something. Digging his paws into the soil, he mounded it over his mess, then hopped out, feeling inordinately proud of himself.

\----

Nick lay on his paws atop Monroe’s closed laptop, his eyelids drooping. _So warm…so sleeeepy,_ he thought. A sudden flash of lightning brought him to full awareness, the brightness dazzling his vision only to be replaced by near darkness. A rumble of thunder soon followed, and Nick could feel his ears twitch with the loudness of it. He was never afraid of storms, but for some reason, he felt uneasy.

Another flash of lightning brightened the room, followed by another and another in quick succession. Nick heard the _slap, slap, slap_ of fat raindrops hitting the window above the desk. He sniffed; there was an odd tinge in the air, of dust and ozone. He didn’t like it. The next lightning flash was longer than the others, the thunder a great, loud clap overhead that hurt Nick’s ears and made the air around him tremble. Terrified, he leapt from the desk, ran from the room and up the stairs, not stopping until he reached the bedroom.

He found Monroe’s laundry basket on the floor of his closet and crawled inside. On top lay the _blutbad_ ’s tatty, old grey cardigan and he burrowed himself down into it, breathing heavily. Soon, he became aware that the sweater smelled of nothing but Monroe, and the realization calmed him. He buried his face into it, breathing in the scent as the storm passed overhead. He fell asleep soon after, and dreamt of his lover’s arms holding him close.

\----

Monroe trudged wearily up his walk to the front porch, a few shopping bags dangling from his fingers. He was soaked to the skin, bone tired and nearly beside himself with worry for Nick. He’d gone to the middle school and dug around as best he could, trying to see if he could unearth a clue. When he caught on to Nick’s scent, he’d followed it, but then the rain had come and washed all traces away. Fucking Portland.

He stopped just outside his door, keys in hand, and rested his forehead against the painted wood. _What was he going to do next?_ He sighed and unlocked the door.

When he got inside, the kitten came running down the stars, tail raised like a flagpole. It headed straight for him, weaving in and out between his ankles, rubbing itself against him. Monroe froze, not wanting to step on the thing. “Yeah, I guess I’m happy to see you too,” he said, and bent over to pick him up. Cradling the kitten in one hand, he brought it to his face and buried his face in the soft fur, taking a moment to derive a little comfort from another living thing in his house. It wasn’t the living thing he preferred to have, but the kitten’s purr was something of a tonic, and made him feel marginally less stressed. “I brought treats,” he said, and walked with the kitten under his arm into the kitchen.

He set the bags on the butcher’s block and the kitten down next to them. “Look what I gotcha,” he said, unpacking the groceries. “Imported Italian tuna, yum-yum-yum. But that’s just a treat for tonight, don’t get used to it. I got some real cat food too – grain free. And catnip, though I might have to return it – don’t want to be accused of corrupting the youth of America. And here, look – a water bowl and, uh, these fuzzy mouse things.” The kitten sat and watched calmly as he unpacked his parcels, eventually sniffing at each of the items in turn. Monroe unpacked a takeout container too. “That’s veggie lasagna, but don’t get any ideas. It’s for me.” He crossed the room with it and popped it in the microwave to reheat it. 

“ Mrrr rowrrr.”

Monroe turned. “Don’t say it. I know.” He grabbed up the jar of tuna and opened it, pulling a few pieces out with a fork and putting them into a cut glass dessert bowl. He laid it down in front of the kitten. “I didn’t find him,” Monroe continued quietly. “I didn’t find him and now he’s two nights gone.”

“ Mrrr rowrrr. Prrrrrhh,” the kitten said, looking at him steadily with its wide, grey eyes. 

Monroe blinked back tears. “You should eat,” he said gruffly as the timer dinged on the microwave. He went and poured himself two fingers of bourbon, moved the lasagna onto a plate and carried it into the living room. He returned to the kitchen a few minutes later, hoisted the kitten up onto his shoulder and grabbed the untouched dish of tuna. “I can’t eat alone anymore,” he said, and went to put on the game.

\----

Monroe came awake gradually, awareness sneaking up on him almost unwanted. There it was again, like almost every morning – that familiar scratchy feeling against the back of his neck that simultaneously tickled and tempted. He’d have to ask Nick to begin shaving at night – his beard really was scratchy. 

He squinched up his shoulder and muttered, “Quit it!” then turned over in place without opening his eyes. Something small, wet and scratchy brushed against the tip of his nose and his eyes flew open. The kitten rested its tiny forehead against Monroe’s face and purred. And then something outrageous clicked inside Monroe’s brain and he blinked again. The kitten… its turning up when it did, its fearlessness, its _scent._ Its tiny belly was lined up against his face, so he could really take in its scent, and so he did. And now he was completely sure. 

“Nick?” Monroe whispered to it. The kitten reached out a paw and rested it on Monroe’s cheekbone. He gathered it up into both hands and sat up, clutching it to himself, burying his face in the fur. “Jesus, it is you, isn’t it?”

“Mrrr rowrrr,” the kitten replied, a tone of self-satisfaction entering its voice. It hugged Monroe’s face with its tiny paws and rubbed its face against his.

After a minute, Monroe pulled away, then set the kitten down on the bed in front of him. “Now, tell me everything. Who did this to you?”

Nick cocked his head to the side and stared at Monroe with kitten-sized exasperation.

\----

Nick looked at Monroe like he was high. _Tell him everything? OK._

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” Monroe got out of bed and went rooting for something at the top of his closet. When he returned to the bed, he laid down a flat box, and Nick was puzzled to see it was a Ouija board. He looked up at Monroe questioningly. “Mew?”

“What? I went through a phase as a kid.” Monroe removed the board from the box and set it down in front of Nick. He turned the board so that it faced towards him and pointed at the alphabet laid out there as well as the “yes” and “no” spaces at the top. “I ask questions, you answer. Make sense?”

Nick took two steps forward and placed his right paw on the “yes” space.

“Great. Now – did someone do this to you, or did you touch something that was cursed, or maybe did you drink something?”

“Meow!”

“Sorry…one question at a time. Did you touch something that was cursed?”

_No._

“Did someone do this to you?”

_Yes._

“A spell?”

 _Yes._ Nick then marched back and forth on the board, spelling out a word with his paw.

“P-O-W-D-E-R. They used a magic powder?”

_Yes._

Monroe rubbed his hands together. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” Nick laid his chest down on the board with his tail up in the air, excited. “Mew!”

“OK, was this related to a case?”

_Yes._

“Those missing kids?”

_Yes._

“And you found them, didn’t you? Or else the person responsible?”

_Yes._

“A witch of some kind?”

Nick tapped on three letters. _I-D-K_

“You don’t know? Well, I suppose you wouldn’t, there are at least three kinds around here. Do you remember the address? We need to get you back there. Only the witch that cast the spell can reverse it.”

_No._

“Do you remember how to get there?”

_Yes._

“Great, I’ll get dressed.” Monroe got up and went over to his closet.

“Mrrr rowrrr!” Nick called to him and he turned. Nick spelled out another word, _A-L-I-V-E_

“Those kids were alive when you were there? Then we’d better hurry.”

Ten minutes later, they left the house, with Nick sitting on Monroe’s shoulder, telling him where to turn by snagging at his jacket with either his left or right paw. Before long, they arrived at the tidy cottage Nick had escaped from only the morning before. 

“That’s the place?” Nick nuzzled the space behind Monroe’s ear and licked him a few times. “Stop that, it tickles. Let’s get a look inside.” 

They crept closer, until they were standing at the back window near the door where Nick had entered two days before. Monroe peeked inside; Miss Jarich’s kitchen table was laden with sacks of produce and other ingredients. She was apparently readying a big feast. In the corner of the room, little Johnny and Maggie sat bound together, watching her placidly. Nick wondered if they were drugged or under some spell to make them so compliant.

“A _Baba Jaga,_ ” Monroe spat out, ducking back down. “And it looks like we’re not a moment too soon. She plans to roast and serve those kids to her closest relatives later tonight, I’d guess. There’s probably a big barbecue pit somewhere close by.” He took Nick off his shoulder and shoved him inside the pocket of his barn jacket. “Stay there and don’t move. I have to move quick.” Nick ducked his head down when Monroe pulled the pocket flap over his head and settled against his hip. He sure hoped Monroe knew what he was doing.

\----

Monroe strode up to the front door of the witch’s house and rang the doorbell. In his hands, he clutched a handful of flowers he’d ripped from the ground along the side of the house, clods of dirt still dangling from their roots. He held them in front of his face as the curtain on the door fluttered. “Delivery,” he called out, wincing. He didn’t have much faith such an obvious ruse would work, so was incredibly surprised when it did.

The door opened. “I wasn’t expecting –“ the young woman’s words were cut off by the hand of the very angry _blutbad_ that was suddenly clutching at her throat.

“I don’t doubt you weren’t expecting me,” he growled, backing her into the house and slamming her against a wall. Her hand flicked to the pouch on her belt and he flexed his fingers, let his claws elongate. “Ah-ah-ah! Any sudden moves towards your bag of tricks and I crush your trachea, are we clear?”

She nodded, attempting to swallow. He eased up on his grip slightly.

“Great. Now, I believe you’ve got something that doesn’t belong to you, and I’m here to return them to their parents.”

“How dare you, _blutbad_!” she squawked, and he tightened his grip again for emphasis. 

“I dare a lot, crone. But there’s one thing I’ll need from you first.” He reached into his pocket with his other hand and pulled a squirming Nick out. “Change him back.”

Her eyes flicked to the kitten and widened. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, a Grimm and a _blutbad_ , I’ve heard it all before. Now make with the incantation or I’ll pop your head like a zit, and don’t think I don’t know that all your spells expire when you die, lady. I’d say that’s an extra bit of motivation for you. Because unlike my friend here, I’m not content to just send you to prison, _capice_?”

“Fine,” she gritted and Monroe loosened his grip so Nick could jump to the floor. 

Monroe eased up on the witch’s throat and turned her toward Nick, his hand still on the back of her neck. He shook her to encourage cooperation and she began the spell. A strange mist started to emanate from Nick’s tiny body, blurring his features.

“Mew?” he said plaintively, “mew, mew, mew!” and Monroe took a step toward him. “If this is anything funny, I will kill you,” he said into her ear.

“It’s not, I swear it,” the _Baba Jaga_ spat out. “See?”

The mist around Nick expanded and became as black as night, but soon dissipated to leave him lying, whole and unharmed – if completely naked –on the living room floor. “Ow,” he said, rolling onto his back and panting slightly.

“You OK?” Monroe asked.

“I will be,” Nick groaned.

Monroe visibly relaxed. “What do you want me to do with her?” He shook her again for emphasis.

Nick got painfully to his feet. “Hang onto her for the time being. I’m sure my handcuffs are around here somewhere. Then I’ll call it in.”

“Good. And hey, buddy, maybe find something to put on, huh? There are kids around.”

\----

An hour later, Nick watched as Johnny and Maggie were reunited with their parents and Miss Jarich was loaded into the back of a squad car to be taken to central booking. The children had been under the witch’s spell since they’d gone missing, and so had little recollection of their ordeal other than being fed cookies and ice cream. 

Nick felt rather than heard Monroe come up beside him. Monroe leaned his shoulder against his, and they allowed their hands to brush each other’s very briefly. They’d have a proper reunion later, in private.

“I think I owe you more than an ’83 Bordeaux for this,” Nick said sincerely.

Monroe nodded. “Dinner at least.”

“I’ve got some paperwork to get through, but how about we make it a date night tonight? Let’s say Beast at 9:00?”

“Sounds like a good start.”

“Pick you up at 8:30?”

“Hmm, make it 8:00. We’re swinging by Bed, Bath, Beyond on the way. Don’t think I didn’t notice what you did to my drapes.” He wandered off, heading home, and Nick smiled fondly. 

“Just wait til you see what I left in the fichus,” he smirked and went to find Hank. 

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
